


Violence Solves Everything

by aykayem



Series: Sing for Absolution [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aykayem/pseuds/aykayem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a mafia-based alternate universe, Harry and Ron find themselves tracking one of the most dangerous individuals they've ever dealt with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Cold nipped at Draco’s fingers and his nose, ignored for the rare moment to himself. The night, though mild, foretold cooling temperatures to come. He hated snow. He hated it and everything it stood for, the death of everything living without so much as a hint of warning. Just a quick breath, and all was exterminated for the eventual rebirth of spring. That wasn’t how he operated. So he hated it.

The lights leaking beneath the door from the office weren’t enough to bother him, nor were they enough to blot out the sight of the stars high above him, twinkling with promise and never-ending joy. He had never seen the stars look unhappy, even when all the world below was. It was as if they were blissfully oblivious to death, destruction, and all that went hand in hand with them. He took a long pull from the cigarette loosely clamped between index and middle fingers, shutting his eyes to allow them fully darkness from which to adjust to that surrounding him. The exhale was accompanied by the opening of his eyes; Draco watched the smoke billow upwards in small blue-grey clouds, swirling and dancing around the stars like some mating dance.

He felt the day’s stresses leaving him with the next inhale, held within his lungs until it burned. He let it out - stress, thoughts, and smoke alike - at once, finally taking a pull of comparatively fresh air. The cigarette hung in his hand limply, temporarily ignored, ash glowing a bright red in the darkness, until he pulled it back up for a third and final pull; he dropped it then, letting it smoulder on the concrete at his feet as he turned to head back inside, tension relieved from his shoulders.

“Oh, excuse me.”

Draco glanced down, grey eyes cold and calculating as they struggled to adjust to the woman immediately in front of him. His expression only barely softened upon recognition, one brow rising in silent question of why she was there, evidently interrupting his moment of privacy, far and few between as they were.

“Someone was looking for you - Nott?” She told him, brushing one long brown curl back over her shoulder, ignoring the gooseflesh cropping up through her thin shirt; her eyes darted away from him, staring out into the black distance. “I think he was rather urgent about it.”

“That’s it?” He replied dryly, tucking chilled fingers back into his pockets. She nodded, stepping aside to let Draco past, and he did so without another word or acknowledgement. Hermione lingered out in the courtyard briefly, wringing her hands thoughtfully before heading back inside, making sure to catch the door before it fell shut fully. She didn’t have a key to everything just yet.

\---

Hermione had only been there a day or two at that point, doing her job silently and without complaint, regardless of the requests Draco may have had for her. He disallowed anyone else to make demands of her, despite Vincent and Gregory’s attempts - what was Draco’s was Draco’s, though the boundaries of precisely what was his were blurred until tested - and tended to ask nothing more of her than he would do himself. She was beginning to learn, however, that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do.

She drifted behind the scenes as an assistant should, sliding in and out of meetings and offices, pulling notes and files for whatever the need, all without question. If someone asked for her boss, she would retrieve him without complaint, passing the message on verbally or in writing, as the need arose. It wasn’t a hard job, as far as things went. It certainly wasn’t her last job, but she had few issues with the general differences that presented themselves to her, plain as the nose on her face. Draco was in a certain line of work that asked dissimilar things of people to any other trade they may have previously encountered. There was no studying for the test, only blind intuition.

\---

“Well, mate,” Ron dropped himself unceremoniously into the chair adjacent to Harry’s, propping his feet up on the low dining table in front of them both, cupping a steaming mug of tea in his lap. Green eyes glanced up, glinting behind round glasses with curiosity, disappearing only briefly behind his own mug. “How do you suppose that day went?”

“Fine, I suppose,” Harry mused, shrugging and setting his mug down, freeing one hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. It had been a boring day, nothing but the odd interrogation to break the monotony of paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. Not the worst thing that could have taken up their mutual time, but certainly not exciting. They’d gotten nowhere fast with the latest lead on the outrageous number of major drug runs in the city, ranging from cocaine to crystal meth, cut with some of the most potent chemicals either of them had seen yet. It was the most obvious operation around, something to distract them from the murders cropping up.

The murders weren’t yet their jurisdiction, though. Not until they could prove without a doubt who the perpetrators were and take over under that claim. It was probably the most frustrating time in their careers, so close yet so far from putting the cuffs on the city’s - the country’s, even - most dangerous people. With informants worldwide and international operations galore, all managed completely underground, there was no doubt in either Harry’s or Ron’s mind that the Riddle mafia was the number one priority if they wanted to guarantee national security.

Too bad no one else agreed with them.

Ron took a long pull at his mug, sighing contentedly at the warmth spreading through him; the night was crisp, moreso than the previous few nights. Despite the fact that they both dressed for the progressing cold, there was something far more satisfactory about a mug of hot tea than there was about a double-layer of socks and a thick sweater.

“S’ not your fault, you know,” Ron started, running his free hand through his hair, forcing messy red locks to stick out in all directions comfortably. “How could you have known the bloke would rather get locked away than give away his whereabouts of last Thursday?”

“He was _innocent_ , Ron. He wasn’t even there. We know that,” Harry moaned, dropping his head into his hands. There was proof in a folder full of witness reports that one of the suspected runners of the mafia - a man so low on the totem pole, it had been easy to catch up to him - had left his day job earlier in the day with a headache and other symptoms of illness and security footage of him leaving long before the hack ever occurred. “There’s no way it could have been him, yet he took the fall anyway. Why?”

“Because, mate,” Ron replied, leaning over to clap one hand on Harry’s shoulder. “There’s just no honour among thieves. Higher ups can’t even take the responsibility for their own actions.”

The brunet scoffed then, choking out a half-laugh, half-sob. He couldn’t deny it in the slightest, save for the one family involved - the Malfoys. Lucius and Narcissa were known criminals, with Lucius heading up any operation that involved the mass media or the public in some way. As if putting the prettiest pair of lovebirds up front and centre would get Riddle off the hook for his actions. Too many times Harry had watched the news, balling his fists in the sheer anger that he couldn’t do anything about them, watched Narcissa flutter blonde lashes at her husband while he committed genocide, watched them share a tender peck before striding off like models back to their Town Car as if nothing had happened.

Now word was out Lucius was packing it in and calling it a day, and that his son was taking the reins, much to Narcissa’s dismay. It still gave them nothing, no idea of how to catch up to anyone of any stature, and no realm of possibilities to explore in terms of how to smoke them out.

They had one option on which to rest any hope, and even she was a shot in the dark. They were relying on the notion that she could get herself somewhere they wouldn’t otherwise let someone so new, someone so untrustworthy. She hadn’t proven herself, and God only knew how long it might take. With their track record, the three of them were more likely to get laid off than to get anywhere of value.

A sigh tore them both from their thoughts and their tea, the click of heels through the room dragging both sets of eyes after the woman they both knew and loved dearly. Hermione flicked a stray curl back over her shoulder, promptly rolling one out as she reached the counter. It was a momentary pause before she began pouring herself a cup of the still-hot tea, but one Ron took as opportunity to rise to his feet, sliding his arms around his girlfriend and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Evening, pet,” he grinned against her cheek, greeted only with a weary smile. He moved out of the backwards embrace, fingers massaging circles and lines around her shoulders and back through the thin beige blouse she’d worn that day; she relaxed into his hands, offering Harry a scene he could smile at. Though his own love life, particularly with one Ginny Weasley, hadn’t gone quite as well as expected, he could always appreciate Ron and Hermione’s perpetual closeness. Even through their bickering, they always did well, coming back stronger than ever.

“How’d everything go?”

“Wouldn’t you know it, he’s an absolute madman when it comes to giving orders. Not that I doubted it for a single moment,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly, gesticulating with one hand to prove her point. Harry and Ron exchanged a brief glance, wondering which of them would have to be the one to ask the question lingering silent between them.

In the end, they settled for speaking in unison - a throwback to the way Ron’s older twin brothers used to speak - “He who?”

“Draco,” she stated, finally sliding out of Ron’s grasp to settle herself into a chair with her teacup casually held between both hands. Hermione took a long sip of the bitter tea, sighing as she leaned back into the chair. The two men exchanged another glance while her gaze was averted, having an unspoken conversation.

“Draco _Malfoy_?” Ron finally asked, “Heir to the Malfoy name and illicit fortunes?”

“Of course. How many Dracos could there be in the world, let alone simply London?” She asked, raising her brow incredulously. “Honestly, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hermione, it’s not us that’s ridiculous,” Ron started, sitting back down and turning to better face her. Harry cut in almost immediately, leaning in to glance between them both, as if it were a great secret.

“It’s the fact that we sent you in there with the intention and expectation of you getting a job lower down on the totem pole,” he started, voice quiet, as if the apartment might be bugged. In all likelihood, it may well have been, if Ron didn’t make a habit of double- and triple-checking every possible place. “How did you even _manage_ to get yourself up to the top?”

“Easy,” she replied, smiling a bit deviously at them both, “He needed an assistant, and I was right there.”

\---

“That covers that. Nott, you’ll be making sure the favour for our dear friend, the minister of finance is done; Lestrange, you’ll be with him, making sure Mr Black is content with his end of the bargain.” Both men nodded where they sat around the board room table, the latter shifting where he sat to cross his legs the other way. It still hadn’t quite hit Draco as to how much younger he was than the other higher-ups so much as it did right then; the others were obviously ugly, wrinkles marring foreheads, eyes, and necks. Draco was still considered beautiful by most, white-blond hair untainted by harsh grey, pale skin unfettered and smooth. He sneered around the room, expression largely hidden by the hand propping up his chin.

“Draco.” A soft voice greeted him, the same that had been directing the others turning to him. The blond glanced up, grey eyes meeting the dark orbs of his boss, trying to hold an element of interest not previously available. “Is your assistant useful?”

“Yes, she’s fine,” Draco drawled in reply, flapping his free hand dismissively. There was clearly an agenda behind the very question, some reason for asking. Even some reason for placing her under him, when she was obviously inexperienced with the way they did things, the way they organised, and the rules that were to be followed. She did well enough as far as he was concerned, but he would certainly have to whip her into shape.

“Knows her duties and the like?”

“Of course, sir. She’s no trouble,” He replied again, shrugging lightly as he stared blandly at his boss, trying to will him to realise the topic was a tedious conversation. The older man seemed to notice, smiling faintly.

“As your father’s son,” Riddle finally started, dropping the polite topic, “You’re my new right hand man.” The room erupted into a flurry of murmurs and hushed conversations, none of which seemed horribly impressed with the idea that Lucius was being so easily succeeded by someone who hadn’t been one of them for long.

“Oh, stuff it,” Draco finally snapped, glowering at them all - Nott, Lestrange, his aunt Bellatrix, settled neatly beside her husband, the senior Goyle and Crabbe, fathers to his own bodyguards. “It’s not like any of you are even remotely subtle.”

Riddle simply continued to smile his knowing smile, the one that didn’t reach his eyes, waiting until the room had fallen quiet again to continue his speech. “Regardless of complaint, a Malfoy is a Malfoy. Draco grew up with us; he knows the family as well as anyone. This is why I think he’s perfect to head up the operation against MI-6.”

The murmurs started up again, this time Draco staying silent, brow furrowed in confusion. The smile faded, the boss’ dark eyes narrowing threateningly. “As you all know, they’re trying to burrow their way through us, dismantling us one by one. Another one dead as of today, making three in the last week. They’re smoking out our informants, our minor players. Those who make us international.

“Draco, you’re going to find out their weakness. We’re going to play on that, and we’re going to take them in our own territory.”

“Yes, sir,” the blond finally replied, rising to his feet. The meeting was over; they were all too restless to properly sit still any longer. “I’ll have them wrapped around my little finger.”


	2. Chapter 2

The lights seemed to flicker as Hermione stormed down the corridor, breezing past assistants who were already scared to death of their employers, and the very employers they were scared of, both of whom pasted themselves to the walls when she strode by. It was perhaps by coincidence that she had taken up Draco’s sense of style in the past few weeks, subtly matching his tendency to wear dark shades and pinstripes with her own tailored suits - today’s weather lent itself to a short skirt in a soft violet with matching jacket. Regardless, it helped everyone from every department and every walk of life know precisely whom it was they were dealing with, assistant or otherwise.

She had learned in a very short time that Draco was one of those who took things very personally. The wrong word uttered in regards to his father or his mother or even something he himself had done, and the blond’s very short fuse was likely even closer to explosive. Rarely did he let it show - another thing she had learned - but it was certainly there, smouldering beneath the surface.

“Well, don’t you look like a bloody bucket of cheer.”

Hermione glanced up, setting her purse down at her desk, unable to keep the pursed irritation from her face. Draco smiled down at her - an expression she wasn’t quite sure of - one hand rested against the back of her chair, neatly containing her where he wanted her. She didn’t bother thinking much of it, simply putting it off as how he was.

“Nothing to say for yourself, Miss Whisp?” She shrugged lightly, making a point of finding her ID and pinning it to her jacket - _Hermione Whisp_ it read, an alias created to keep her away from any arising suspicion. Draco continued to smile down at her, grey eyes boring into her, willing her to speak her mind. She tried to ignore him, struggled to keep her thoughts and eyes elsewhere. It was less a matter of not wanting to speak about the break-up, but simply more that she didn’t want to discuss it with him.

It wasn’t to say that she disliked her boss. She just didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, and she knew it was a mutual feeling. Hermione was a new face in the family, someone who hadn’t been weighed as far as weaknesses and strengths went - she was a variable that had been uncalculated.

“Of course not, sir,” she tried at first, a deflection of his suspicions as she began sorting through her paperwork - orders and notes on a number of people, both alive and dead - all of which needed to be organised and put away according to some intricate method she hadn’t yet devised. Draco seemed to have some methodology as far as things went, but it left a lot to be desired, largely due to his tendency to need to be elsewhere.

“Come now,” he replied, voice dropping to a low purr, as if the answers could be seduced right out of her. Despite his voice hinting at things that were less than appropriate, either for the immediate situation or for two people of their relative unfamiliarity, Hermione made a note that he was clearly not touching her, not crossing that boundary of the physical. He was close enough for her to feel, for her to become acutely aware of his presence beside her, but not so close as to truly make her uncomfortable.

“I hardly think my personal life would interest you in the slightest,” Hermione told him then, switching abruptly to a different tactic. Her time with Harry and Ron at their boarding school - where they had met - had done well to teach her exactly how to deal with insistent boys, how to distract them and make it sound like something was their idea, despite being controlled from the outside. A thought occurred to her then - a way to get her even closer to the family’s happenings and how they were, how they came about - and she gave him a soft, coy smile, finally seeming as though his flirting was getting through. “Though I have to ask - do you have a glass of water in that office of yours?”

He gestured for her to follow him, finally pushing away from her chair and desk to open the space up again; Hermione rose to her feet, relishing in the lack of claustrophobia she was briefly granted before shadowing him into the office she hadn’t actually seen before. It was an uninviting space, with Draco’s large desk practically pasted in the centre in such a way that you were intimidated the moment you walked in. It was dark, much darker than the rest of the offices she had seen, dark in that way that blocked out residual sunlight and opted for the fake glow of LEDs to brighten the space, hidden in pot lights kept dimmed.

It was just as seductive as Draco was.

Once the door was closed, he paused, turning back towards her with that knowing smile and piercing stare that practically glowed through the darkness; he had taken up a pen from his desk, turning it between his fingers to test the balance - it swung easily between lithe digits - before he finally spoke, breaking the uneasy silence.

“So was water your actual intention, or was this merely a ploy to get me alone?” He asked, voice low, as if he were trying to keep quiet and unheard by his colleagues. “There’s a water cooler just down the hall; you and I both know that.”

Hermione felt a small smile curve her lips; she certainly had to respect someone who had caught on that quickly to her trick. Ron would have never guessed, not until she was pressed against him, her tongue in his mouth. He never had. He wasn’t an intellectual match for her, and someone as eager for knowledge as the brunette was needed someone who encouraged her.

“No, you’re right,” she replied, feeling as though her voice were detached from her body, speaking freely without permission. Heat pooled low in her abdomen, a result of his tone of voice, the setting, the residual anger at Ron for once again forcing her hand. It seemed to be one of his hobbies lately, and with the stress of work, she simply couldn’t handle it; she had left almost immediately after breaking up with him, sleeping alone for the first time in a very long time.

“You’re right,” Hermione repeated, sighing to herself as she planted both hands on her hips. She had never been a particularly amazing liar, except in the most dire of circumstances; perhaps her luck would hold out through well-placed exaggeration. “I have to admit, sir, ever since I first learned I’d be working as your assistant, I’ve felt more than a bit...torn, shall we say, in my personal feelings. It’s hardly appropriate to take an interest in someone at your workplace, particularly your boss.” Here she looked marginally offended, the expression only half-feigned; even under normal circumstances, having a relationship with one’s boss was rather low in Hermione’s eyes. A completely unnecessary step taken likely in the direction of preferential treatment.

“Unfortunately, I may have judged too quickly,” she paused, slowly bringing her eyes up to meet his. The grey seemed to darken, the mischief in his expression growing with barely noticeable fervency in the dim lighting. “I have to admit, I have stooped to the levels of those unwilling to manually climb the ladder of success.”

If it were at all possible, his voice dropped lower yet, narrowing into a purr or a growl; his descent into animalistic tendency was obvious, even to the most untrained of eyes. To Hermione, who spent her days analysing material within an inch of its life, searching for some sign everyone else had missed to find what needed to be found, it was practically suffocating. Despite Draco’s inclinations to loom and overwhelm - or perhaps because of them - she found herself being sucked in.

“Shall I show you precisely why people unlike yourself tend to fall into the beds of their superiors, then?”

The room seemed so small at that moment, both of them moving together to press their bodies tight to one another; their mouths met awkwardly at first, in a wet kiss no one would be jealous of. The rhythm quickly evened out, Draco taking control with one hand sliding into her hair to cup the nape of her neck as his tongue slid past her lips, tasting both her lipgloss and herself, the other resting at her hip. She found herself restricted, moreso than she had ever been with Ron - with Ron, it was always her taking charge - and liking the feeling of being dominated, if even in something as simple as a kiss.

His tongue flicked against hers, drawing a gasp and a moan from her throat, her body putty in his hands. Draco took his opportunity as he saw it, steering her back towards his desk until he had her pressed between it and himself - a rock and a hard place, so to speak - with their hips grinding together in a silent promise of things to come. His mouth left hers, claiming her jawline between lightly nipping teeth, pressing lines of hot kisses down her throat, fingers of his free hand tugging at her buttons and popping them free. The more skin that was bared, the happier he seemed, the more animalistic he became, nipping blossoming marks into her pale flesh as if claiming her for his own.

Two days ago, Hermione would have felt guilt in some regard; now, not a single thought of Ron passed through her mind. She wasn’t over him by any stretch of the imagination - it was simply a needed change from the monotony of her on-and-off boyfriend of so many years.

Her jacket was on the floor before she knew it, her blouse half-open to reveal the swells of her breasts above her bra - white and lacy. Within moments, Draco’s mouth was at them, tongue laving at harsh bite marks that were sure to bruise later; he drew another moan from her, her hands scrambling up his arms to clutch and cling him tighter. He seemed to have no intention of stopping, nor of slowing down, fingers now trailing down to find the hem of her skirt, dragging it upwards to reveal as much of her bare thigh as he could. Pale fingertips continued moving, slipping easily beneath the fabric to steal along gooseflesh-ridden skin, his gentle touch tantalising and bringing forth more heat to pool between them.

Her own fingers fell between them, popping buttons on his shirt to allow herself the sensation of running her hands over his pale chest. Soft sighs and groans of bated anticipation filled the room’s silence, barely audible past the soundproofed walls of the office; Draco had been thinking once upon a time, looking towards some moment where he had his way with his secretary on his desk. Just like every good boss.

His fingers found the edge of her panties, swiftly removing them and letting them fall with her jacket; her hands tremblingly tugged open the button of his trousers, baring them both to the crisp air of the room. Hermione gave a shudder, pulling Draco closer to her. His length, already hard, pressed against her thigh, sliding between her legs to press against her most intimate parts. It drew a moan from her throat, a throat that lingered beneath the blond’s lips and teeth as he bit at her flesh again, sucking another marked blossom there. He hummed against her skin, audibly noting his satisfaction with the way things were turning out.

Hermione finally cried out as her boss thrust into her with little care for precisely how rough he was being; between the bites and the sudden deep meetings of their hips against one another, it was a wonder no one had noticed what they were doing. She clung to him as he rode her, the desk bumping and shifting with each hard thrust, her gasping cries of his name amalgamating with his soft grunts of effort, muffled faintly against her throat and breasts, to create some harmony of rough sex that was nearly tangible. Draco shifted, accommodating a new position, a new depth - he bit his lip, panting against her chest - and his secretary flattened herself back against his desk, back arching as she gasped, bringing their hips flush against each other.

It was perhaps only a matter of a few more minutes past then that Hermione’s back arched almost painfully, her body squeezing around Draco’s length as she hit her climax, each supplementary thrust milking her orgasm longer and longer and effectively rendering her a twitching mess; another moment longer and he joined her in debauched exhaustion, releasing himself deep inside her with a sharp cry. His fingers dug into her hips through her skirt, bunched up indecently, and held tight as he caught his breath and his balance, cock sliding flaccidly out.

They stayed there for what felt like ages, the clock on Draco’s desk - now lying on its side - ticked its displeasure at the sight it had beheld, counting by every passing second like a chastising note. At long last, Hermione straightened, pulling down her skirt with a slightly rattled expression not unlike one she might offer after being asked a particularly offensive question; her cheeks remained flushed, her eyes averted though Draco made the attempt to catch them as he straightened as well, tucking himself back into his trousers. She cleared her throat, drawing his attention back up to her curiously, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“Well,” she began, lips pursed largely out of embarrassment, “I suppose I ought to get back to my work.” Retrieving her discarded articles of clothing from the floor and briskly redressing herself, Hermione couldn’t help but tack a final comment on, nonchalant and curious: “This place really is unlike anywhere else I’ve worked before.”

“I can’t suppose it would be,” Draco mused, drawing out his syllables as if he had all the time in the world to speak, and all would continue listening to him until he was decidedly finished. “We do work under our own sort of rules, after all.”

“And what’re those, Mr Malfoy?” The brunette asked softly, shaking her tousled curls out - she immediately seemed more comfortable.

Draco slid closer to her again, his fingertips playing along the line of her arm through her blouse; grey eyes tracked his progress until they finally snapped up to meet hers. “You’re not a stupid girl, Miss Whisp. I’m sure you know what it is we do here.”

She replied with only silence, tipping her head back slightly as a statement of acknowledgement. There was no way that - in her position of power - she could have possibly missed the records and receipts of drug and alcohol exports and imports, shipping dockets for varying ports and warehouses around the country, and even the odd weapons file, all mixed with dossiers on a number of people. Police, both local and national included - Hermione had only been slightly surprised when she found notes made on both Harry and Ron, though admittedly scant considering they were the only ones to be so fascinated by the eradication of Riddle and his lot in a very long time.

“In order to even be here, someone had to trust you,” he mused, studying her face for some deeper level of thought; she revealed nothing. “But does that mean you’re slightly more aware than the average person?”

It was a rhetorical question, and Draco stepped away from her then, circling back around his desk to settle in his chair. “The police paints us as a bunch of miscreants; delinquents who want nothing more than anarchy - or at least to be rid of the current authority. It’s only partially true, you know.

“We don’t follow their idea of justice, no. It’s too non-specific. No, we take care of our own; we protect our own honour. We don’t fight for an abstract, an unknown like a country; we’re not patriots, and we’re not soldiers to be used. Everyone in this building is here for a reason, and that’s because they believe exactly what I’m telling you - that if someone rapes your mother or murders your brother, you should more than allowed to take matters into your own hands and blow that fucker’s head away.”

Hermione’s brows raised at the imagery evoked by Draco’s words, said with such a straight face and without a hint of emotion. She had only heard through the grapevine - through the filter of Ronald Weasley - what the family was about; she had only heard that they killed without fear, that they extorted and smuggled and murdered, never with any sign of a heart.

It wasn’t to say that they weren’t passionate - Draco disproved that very theory with the cloaked passion with which he explained everything to her. It was then that he turned to a drawer of his desk, pulling out a gun that glinted even in the dim light of his office - silver plated, with a wide barrel. Certainly, she was no expert on weaponry, but she knew from just a glimpse that it was a very dangerous piece.

“That…” Hermione paused, swallowing as she tried to put her thoughts to words: “That gun is your father’s.”

He smirked, seemingly pleased she had recognised it. When his family had been published in the papers, it was one of the first things mentioned on the scene of a crime - the gun was so distinctive that it was well known as only a thing Lucius Malfoy would keep on his person. Needless to say, Draco hadn’t struck her as a sentimental person, and especially not one to use his father’s weapon. His smirk grew wry as he ran his fingers over the hard lines of the handgun, telling a story not previously established.

“That’s right, Miss Whisp. This was indeed my father’s.” The usage of past tense made Hermione listen that much closer, waiting for some hint as to what was happening that the papers weren’t reporting. But he offered nothing else. It had merely offered a small glance below Draco’s surface, a hint that he was possibly human.

That said, Draco slid the weapon back into its drawer, giving her only an arcane smile before nodding her out subtly, back to the previously-scheduled work day.

\---

“Sod it all,” Harry declared as he shrugged his coat off, sloughing it onto a nearby chair immediately before dropping himself into it. Across the room, Ron raised a brow, dropping his dog-eared book to his lap as he brought down his feet from where they rested on a coffee table.

“Sod what now, Harry?” The redhead prodded, running a lazy hand through messy hair; Harry just shot him a tired stare, rolling his eyes. The two, having lived together for years during their time at boarding school, were used to having to play 20 Questions in order to get particular things out of the other. It didn’t mean that they liked it, but they eventually adapted, making a bit of a game out of it.

“The buggered taps we put on Goyle’s phone?” The younger of the pair sighed, tipping his chair back and balancing it on two legs, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Apparently he and Crabbe just got the dirt on a new plot - I overheard it today not moments before they reinforced that blackmail ploy of last week. The one on Pearce, you know it.”

“I know it,” Ron replied, suddenly sneering his disapproval. “I heard his sister’s shoppe was bombed. Bloody dynamiters and all that rot. No one was inside, though.”

“Thank God, too. It was lucky the entire building didn’t come down; they rigged the charges along all the load-bearing walls of the basement. We had to go through the entire stock down there in order to even find the damn things.”

“Shite day, then.”

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes and smiling wryly in agreement; he offered no words, merely a follow-up sigh as his chair tipped back onto all four legs with a thud. His hands found their way to his face, massaging his temples.

“Any word from Hermione?” Ron finally asked, breaking the silence with his somewhat awkward outburst. There was only a hint of hope in his tone, the one thing that - if Harry didn’t know Ron as well as he did - wouldn’t have tipped him off to the fact that the redhead actually missed the young woman. Understandable, though, as they had honestly been dating for virtually their entire lives. It probably would have blown over by then too, except that Hermione’s assignment had taken her away for the first time ever. Harry merely cast a sideways glance over to him, studying him briefly.

“No, nothing. Not unless she’s leaving us voicemails without us realising it,” he replied with a small shrug, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he leaned back. The silence that fell between them at that point was comfortable and personable, if not slightly awkward. Both minds were on the young woman around whom their lives seemed to revolve.

Even in absence, their lives seemed to revolve around her; Harry cast a small sideways glance over at Ron, questioning something that the redhead seemed to understand. Both returned to semi-awkward silence, tension hanging heavy before Ron shoved himself up from his own seat, striding pointedly across the room to crush his mouth to that of his best friend.

It wasn’t a tender sort of kiss, but more something of sheer necessity. A distraction, to ease thoughts away from anything unpleasant, and something both of them could always guarantee was there. Perhaps the result of teenage experimentation, Ron realised one of the first times he and Hermione ‘took a break’, for lack of a better turn of phrase, that he needed some kind of outlet. If his best mate happened to be that outlet, so fucking be it.

Neither had ever taken issue with it, distracting the other in any time of distress. It was simply something between them, never brought up in any situation beyond the here and now. Ron didn’t want to imagine the look on Hermione’s face if she ever realised he fooled around with their mutual friend - and had been for years - whenever she was gone; Harry just didn’t want to think about officially coming out as anything less than the completely straight-laced person everyone thought him to be.

Ron nipped at Harry’s lower lip, thrusting his tongue into the other male’s mouth to taste him. He cupped the brunet through his dark jeans, rubbing slowly to work him harder, until the seam was taut with arousal; Harry groaned into the kiss, one hand carding through thick red hair to pull him closer. It was only after a few more moments of the intense session that Ron pulled away, dropping to his knees between Harry’s legs. The younger man hadn’t noticed his jeans being undone - distracted by both the kiss and Ron’s hand on his cock even through his trousers - and groaned long and loud as the same slick, warm mouth that had been on his not moments ago claimed his length, taking its throbbing entirety all at once.

He jerked his hips upward, fucking Ron’s mouth with an earnest moan, his back already arching due to the rarity of the touches. Since school, no one had ever seen Harry with any kind of lover - Ron once entertained the idea of his best mate simply holding out for him, guaranteeing he would always be there as necessary. The brunet had never uttered a word in regards to it, however, and it would probably remain an eternal mystery.

Not that it mattered anyway. Ron hummed his own pleasure around Harry’s cock, tongue working hot lines up and around each ridge from stones to head, his mouth siphoning loudly at Harry’s member in the otherwise silent room. Nothing dared interrupt the pair, not until the redhead was sucking fervently, his hand furiously jerking his own length, and Harry arched harder, breaking the quiet with a sharp cry as he came; Ron worked to take in every drop, his own climax hitting him with a groan. A hushed tranquility fell back upon the two young men as Ron collapsed beside Harry’s seat, both of them tucking themselves into their trousers with no words besides the lingering pants of breath and racing heartbeats faintly audible in their ears. It wouldn’t be brought up again, nor would it be mentioned in any kind of conversation that made them acknowledge what they really were to one another. It was a matter of convenience, nothing more.

It felt like an hour before either spoke; it was Harry who cut in with what felt like a rather random outburst of speech, tone a bit more than curious, and a tad more demanding than questioning: “So what happened between you two?”

“Harry, don’t start on t-”

“It wasn’t a question, Ron,” Harry replied, eyes locked on the pale cream of the ceiling.

Ron merely pursed his lips, rolling his eyes, and explained.

\---

Hermione sat up straight in her chair, trying not to fall into the lure of the cushions and the warmth of the room, and relax: her job was to take notes and pay the utmost attention, both for Draco and for herself. There would be no questions when she tucked the notepad into her purse at the end of the day, particularly not from Draco, who had been nothing but trusting since their liaison. It was through his word that she was there at all, acting as a pseudo-secretary for the entire operation and taking down the detailed minutes of the meeting.

“The scheduled bombings on those who haven’t paid up have gone well. They’re thoroughly distracted, convinced we’re aiming low,” Crabbe reported blandly, his words clearly practiced beforehand so that he came off rather more well-spoken than usual. Hermione made a brief note in the margin that he was one of the least intelligent of the crew she was growing intimately familiar with. Goyle grunted his agreement with Crabbe, and Hermione made a second note to include both bodyguards.

Bellatrix grinned from where her chin rested in her hands, hair a wild frame. “They’ll never see us coming,” she purred, flicking one lithe hand out in gesticulation. “We’ll have them sent on a wild goose chase somewhere over there, all the while we’re over here,” - more gestures made to solidify her point - “And the next thing they know-”

She slammed her hands down on the table at that moment, a soft, gleeful giggle gradually becoming a maniacal cackle. At the head of the table, Riddle smiled to himself. Rodolphus made an embarrassed effort to calm his wife down, muttering something under his breath that Hermione couldn’t catch.

“Or we could be utterly silent about it, sneaking in under the radar and killing them all that way,” Draco drawled, finally chiming in from where he sat beside his assistant. “After all, if they’re that distracted, they would hardly notice one or two people slipping past security. We’ve done it before.”

All attention in the room jumped to him; Hermione took a moment to admire exactly how much heed was paid when her boss opened his mouth. His aunt seemed offended that they wouldn’t be going through with her plan, but no one else seemed to take issue.

“The only difference now is that we need to pay a bit more attention to their standard schedules.”

“So we’ll get on that,” Riddle purred from the head of the table. He rose, each of his Death Eaters rising with him. “Draco, you’re in charge. I trust you won’t fail us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” the blond smirked, swelling with silent pride. He turned, leaving the room with an air of confidence that made Crabbe and Goyle both shiver as he passed; Hermione fell into step with him as the meeting disbanded, everyone filing out to their respective work. It wasn’t long before the pair of them were alone in the corridor, striding pointedly back to Draco’s office and her own desk respectively.

“I think I may be able to help you, Mr Malfoy.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So I have to say, crossing us probably wasn’t the best decision you’ve ever made in your life,” Draco announced, expression surprisingly nonchalant as he stared down at the man, bound and gagged, kneeling at his feet. His gun glittered in the low light of the warehouse, almost beautiful in all of its threats. “After all, if you’d just left the money where we asked for it, when we asked for it, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

His thumb worked, muscles flexing as it shifted to cock the weapon, clicking the safety off with a certain level of precision that showed any onlookers exactly how good a shot Draco was. He sighed, seemingly disappointed by the entire turn of events. “Just dumb luck, I suppose.”

The bullet exploded, and the man fell backwards awkwardly. His legs splayed out at unwieldy angles, and he toppled into a quickly spreading puddle of sticky gore, blood and the like clinging to messy hair. Draco stepped around the man, admiring both the entrance wound neatly nestled between the eyes and the exit wound, wide and gaping just above the cement floor. Giving a small nudge to the corpse with one pristinely shined shoe, he waved one hand forward, beckoning.

“Miss Whisp. Take care of this, will you?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose where she lingered just behind Draco, pulling out and flipping open her cell phone in one practiced motion. She turned away from both her boss and the body, staring up blankly as if pleading for some last moment of life - she hadn’t looked a corpse in the eye yet, and she wasn’t planning on changing that any time soon. It was probably the most gruesome sight she had to deal with in both her time with MI-6 and the family, and one that begged the question - why was she still there?

Perhaps it was because she had given away too much already - accessing Draco’s personal files on those well-known members of MI-6 and updating them, managing to provide him with a rough idea of the layout of the buildings: warehouses, offices and the like. She’d had to keep his trust, and sleeping with him would wane eventually. Draco had raised one curious brow at her when she said she knew what she was doing, challenging her to reveal herself as some double-agent. She’d done nothing of the sort, instead attempting to prove the opposite by giving him more than she should have.

She swallowed deeply at the thought of looking at Harry and Ron’s respective files, updating them with a brief _killed in action_.

There was something inherently bizarre about writing the inconclusive deaths of your closest friends, even if it was merely to throw them off the trail. There was no proof either way that they were dead or that they were alive; because the three of them were the only ones still working on shutting down the family - the rest had laughed the idea off ages ago - there would be no one to argue it. She had swallowed the awkwardness of declaring her ofttimes-boyfriend newly departed, and given in.

Once the call was made, her cell closed, Draco slid his hands around her waist, his mouth finding the shell of her ear. It had been a few weeks since that first morning between them, and they had gone nowhere but up. It was as if nothing could possibly get in the way of either their affair or Draco’s mission proceeding forward. His mouth continued laving at her throat, sucking a small blemish there, finally drawing a laugh out of her.

“I thought you were on the job.”

“I am,” he drawled in reply, nuzzling beneath her hair, his hand wandering downwards slightly. She swatted it away, tucking her phone into her purse again.

“Then perhaps you ought to act like it,” Hermione purred, giving him a small, knowing smile that suggested he would get all he wanted later. A devious smile curved his lips upwards, his hands lingering briefly on her body before she slipped away.

\---

“Look, mate, you’re swell and all,” Ron started, giving Harry a pointedly meaningful look to represent all he wouldn’t say, “But I have to say, I’m starting to miss my girlfriend.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that she’s not your girlfriend anymore?” It was one of the only times Harry acknowledged what Ron was saying throughout the entire conversation; he was otherwise occupied with a database - locally accessed - on what they had managed to get out of Hermione thus far. An in-depth discussion of the hierarchy, their weaknesses, their strengths, and everything in between. She had practically assembled an entire dossier on the Riddle mafia for their usage, even if she was hardly around.

Not that Ron really made the most of it.

“Of course she’s my girlfriend. What sort of statement is that?”

“Have you seen these notes on Goyle or Crabbe? She really does pay attention, that girl,” Harry murmured to himself, scrolling through the intricately detailed notes. Ron strode over, leaning over to read over his shoulder.

“You haven’t seen her, have you? She’s just been sending you all this stuff, that’s it?” He asked, gesturing for Harry to scroll faster; he wanted to see someone else’s details.

“This, handwritten notes on what they’re planning...God, I have to ask how she got everything.”

“Clearly she’s sleeping with someone,” Ron muttered bitterly, shoving away from Harry’s chair to throw himself emphatically into a couch. Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the cries for attention.

“I think she’s just good at her job, Ron. She always was.” Harry closed each of the documents, opening up a cross-sectioned blueprint of a floor in the office mapping out precisely where a number of wiretaps were now hooked up. Each was numbered, a small transmitter placed in a box at Harry’s feet. They were marked only with numbers, the controls coded in the manner the three of them had encrypted years before, in school.

“Have you seen this yet?” He gestured to the map. Ron glanced up just enough to give Harry a dark look, and strained his neck to see.

“No,” the redhead replied blandly, shrugging before falling back to the cushions. “What is it?”

“Wiretaps. One in virtually every office. We have Lestrange, Avery, Carrow, Snape…” Harry shook his head, tapping his lower lip with a pencil as he jotted personal notes - all coded, in case they should fall into the wrong hands. “It’s brilliant. Admittedly, it’s not everyone - it’s not Malfoy - but we have enough here…”

“To what, to nail the whole operation? Are we bringing the wankers down?” Ron asked, suddenly animate as he jumped to his feet.

“Not yet. But we can nail them on one thing.” Harry smirked, pointing with the end of the pencil to a small map attached, with handwritten notes in an unknown scrawl in regards to the next known strike.

“Brilliant.”

\---

It was maybe three days later. Harry barely knew anymore; he had been spending night and day at his desk, listening in and scoping out the game plan for the warehouse raid. But they were ready, at least by his standards. Normally, he preferred to live on the edge and fly by the seat of his trousers, but with Ron’s recommendations, he knew that the two of them couldn’t take down what sounded like at least four captains and their personal bodyguards, in addition to however many workers happened to be toting goods back and forth.

With any luck, they wouldn’t encounter too many of those, though. Peering out from where he had staked himself - just behind a large refrigerated container - Harry made sure to keep his breathing near silent. Any noise would give him away. Green eyes darted away from the main area of the currently empty warehouse, filled with boxes and crates of varying size and varying contents, over to where Ron sat, fiddling with a small glowing device. His cell phone, most likely; Harry rolled his eyes skyward at the idea of Ron trying to get ahold of Hermione _still_. And particularly at a moment like that - do or die.

Ron glanced up then, giving him a nod and a thumbs-up. The large sliding door of the warehouse slid open then, clanging noisily along its rail and signaling the captains’ arrival. Both agents nodded at each other, silently sweeping a weapon from their sides, and cocking them to the ready. Anyone they could take down would be worth it; anyone they could capture would be even more so.

Both glancing around their respective receptacles, they held their ground for another moment longer, waiting with baited breath for the opening they knew they would get. Perhaps there would be something to Hermione's prediction after all.


	4. Chapter 4

_Harry awoke with a gasp, the feeling of someone’s hot mouth sucking at an erection he hadn’t been aware of. His back arched, muscles spasming; his skin was slick with sweat and sticky against another body. It was only as he opened his mouth for a groan that he felt another against his, tongue plunging deep into the wet heat to taste. Lips that tasted of cherry lipgloss were flush to his, lithe fingers sliding through his hair to keep his head in place. He was caught in a labyrinth of sensation, almost overwhelmed as a tongue ran flat along the underside of his length, and moaned into the kiss._

 _He recognised moans mingling with his as the voices of Hermione and Ron, both vague and only hinted at; another voice, another mouth, laved at the shell of his ear, teasing a sensitive pressure point as if with nothing but whispering touches. Harry felt shivers of desire run through him, gooseflesh marring his naked body and transferring through those of his friends. He felt unfamiliar fingers caress his throat, the ridge of his collarbone, and finally come to rest at a nipple, tweaking it. Harry squirmed beneath the attention, no longer able to focus entirely on the other sensations to which he was being treated; Hermione had given up his mouth to take Ron’s, leaving Harry’s flesh to be alone molested by someone he still couldn’t place._

 _“You’re such a fucking moron, Potter.”_

Harry blinked green eyes open, struggling to focus them as stars danced around the room. The voice was bizarrely familiar, but not as someone he immediately knew; as if the room swimming and spinning around him wasn’t enough, he now had this puzzle weighing on his mind. One hand groped for his glasses where he hoped they rested on his face, then massaged one temple - they were still there, they were still fine. He was dressed, and Hermione was nowhere to be seen. Ron, however, was another matter - he was there somewhere, but out of sight.

“No, seriously. You’re an absolute fucking moron.” There was that voice again, though louder and not purring ‘sweet nothings’ into his ears. If that was what they could possibly have been called, considering. Harry coughed, trying to clear his throat of a particularly harsh lump that had lodged itself there, and finally managed to blink away the stars and resulting dizziness enough to turn towards the voice. Any reply he may have made was caught on the tip of his tongue as he glimpsed the barrel of a gun, silver-plated and neatly polished to within an inch of its life, aimed directly at his head.

The voice continued, and Harry remembered where he had heard it - television. Not that he often watched much. It was usually just for work, like how he collected newspaper clippings and the like. Ron had once bugged him about how he could be misconstrued as some kind of stalker. The words were growing fuzzy in his ears, and he focused purely on the lilt of the voice, swallowing dryly as he solidified his thoughts in his head: Draco Malfoy.

“You think we haven’t been onto you, then? Even stupider. You know, when I took this on, I knew the lot of you were a bloody fucking waste of time, but I hadn’t realised you wankers were acting with less than a full deck of cards between the pair of you. Are you listening to me?” A sharp pain shot through Harry’s spine, and he belatedly realised that Malfoy had cuffed him with the butt of the gun. He gave another weak cough before nodding.

“Not sure why the government actually keeps you on. They realised ages ago they can’t do jack shite about us being here. And now the two of you - fucking ginger nearly kneecapped me, you know - thought you could do what an entire department couldn’t? Or maybe you’re the only ones stupid enough to stick with the department, is that it?’ Draco asked, pressing the cool steel of his firearm against Harry’s temple as he knelt down beside the brunet. Harry had to admit, in person, the blond was even more intimidating. A thought sprang to mind: that Hermione was working with him daily. He could barely fathom how she managed it. Perhaps she’d merely managed to escape the dry sarcasm and never-ending string of insults that seemed to spew from what Harry had initially thought was a well-educated mouth.

His thoughts lingered on Hermione a moment or two longer before he heard the familiar click of a safety turning off. “Look, I don’t precisely take well to being ignored, Potter.” And how did Malfoy get his name? It wasn’t like he was in the public eye. “So if you think you ought to live to see tomorrow’s sunrise, give me one good reason.”

Harry’s mouth grew dry. Even though this was exactly what he and Ron had been looking for, this sort of situation - with the impending threat of his brains being scattered over a warehouse floor - was hardly ideal. He wondered briefly where Ron was, how he was doing. How they’d been separated. If he’d been hurt as well. Harry could taste blood now, and ran his tongue over his lips, dried and cracked; it was coming from some other wound he was unaware of. Perhaps he’d bitten his tongue with the initial blow. Hermione’s voice in the back of his head - when she became his conscience was beyond him - warned to make sure it wasn’t internal bleeding or some gaping wound, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d get out of it alive enough to even care.

“Can’t think of anything, then? All right, if you insist…” Draco trailed off, finger beginning to lie heavy against the trigger. They were interrupted by a bang. The blond immediately jolted to his feet, cursing loudly.

“Boss!” A shriek from somewhere nearby - around a cargo container or two - mentally cauterised Harry, bringing him back to reality fully. The gun was gone from his temple, and he took the opportunity to begin a hasty escape, scrambling on all fours to get behind another nearby crate. Only there did he pat his holster down for his own weapon, pulling and cocking it in one fluid motion; he didn’t plan on killing anyone, but if it was necessary, he would do it.

“For fuck’s sake, Goyle - _what?_ ” Draco practically screamed, his sigh a swift, hissed exhale between grit teeth. Harry peered out from his hiding place, where he’d been conveniently forgotten, and half-watched the blond and his henchman duck around a corner, murmuring a conversation between them. His phone buzzed against his hip, and he snapped it open after a glance to check the caller ID.

“Mate, looks like their target hasn’t shown yet; where the hell were you just now?” Ron hissed, keeping his voice down. His sentences were slurred updates, little verbal punctuation separating each thought, as if the redhead was worried they’d be cut off by a firefight at any moment.

“Meeting Malfoy, wouldn’t you know.” Ron sputtered on the other end, quickly silencing himself. Harry stifled a wry chuckle, keeping his weapon at the ready as he glanced out into the expanse of the warehouse again; everything was near silent now that Malfoy wasn’t hurling insults at him any longer. It was so silent he could hear a pin drop - perhaps it was because of that that Ron was keeping quiet for the moment; a shuffle of shoes against concrete amidst the unmoving mafioso placed around the spacious room.

“God...Hermione. What’s she d-” Harry started, voice a barely audible murmur; he was cut off a brisk intake of air on the other end of the phone.

“Harry, don’t tell me that. Hermione’s here?” Ron swore, cocking his own weapon. There was another shuffle - Ron adjusting himself where he sat, possibly to get a better view.

“Don’t do anything hasty - she’s here on business, if anything.” Harry chewed his lip, only half-listening to Ron’s annoyed mutterings about how she wouldn’t pick up her phone; how she was putting herself in danger; and how he was bloody well worried sick at this point. He shifted, just enough to catch a glimpse of where Hermione disappeared to - she crouched now beside Draco, murmuring some update into his ear. A frown furrowed his brow as he watched, scanning the nearby area for some sign of what had happened, for what had saved his skin not moments ago.

“Ron - what happened, anyway?” He started, voice dropped in an attempt to hear what was being said across the room. The redhead cut off his tangent mid-word and gave an unseen shrug.

“You were gone, Malfoy was nowhere to be seen; figured I ought to do something, maybe ease the rat out of hiding. So I shot his little friend.”

“Completely unprovoked?” Harry asked, frowning at the phone. Certainly, he was no fan of any of them, but it was better to try and take them in, not kill them on sight; all they needed was one willing to open his mouth and give something away, and they’d have everything they needed.

“Course not, mate,” Ron drawled. Harry could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Kill or be killed, that’s how this game is played.”

There was movement from where Harry’s eyes had since left; his next glance told him that he’d missed their departure. Somewhere else in the warehouse, a large automated door was slowly rolling upwards, a mechanical ticking giving him some perspective in the room. He snapped his phone shut, quickly tucking it into a secure pocket before rising into a low crouch and beginning a brisk strafe to the next cargo unit. The gun fell to a comfortable position beside Harry’s own ear, where he could easily bring it up to eye level for a quick sight, as he leaned against the box, inhaling in time to a mental countdown.

Three. He closed his eyes, visualising the end result: taking in Draco Malfoy and beginning the end of the mafia’s reign.

Two. He listened carefully, taking care to make sure Hermione wasn’t going to be in his direct line of sight. She hadn’t been, and he didn’t hear her footsteps; the last thing he wanted on his conscience was his best friend’s death.

One.

Harry’s train of thought was interrupted by a secondary bang, the sound of some loud kick back cutting his countdown off mid-word. A strangled cry rang out. A heavy thud and the clatter of shells. A loud cry for Goyle to get his arse in gear.

They were fucked.

\---

The past few minutes felt like an hour and a half to Draco. The concrete was murder on his back, and sitting in that position for so long just waiting was hardly his idea of a good time. Particularly since he hadn’t even managed to get his one chance to fill that annoying agent - practically stalking him, those two were, by the looks of it - with lead. His heart was racing in his chest, and if he didn’t know better, Draco would have to admit arousal in the heat of the moment.

He cast a sideways, pursed glance to Goyle, wondering how long the man had been crouched uncomfortably in wait. The target was late. There they were, spending their time in a warehouse crowded with refrigerated crates and cargo containers, when they could have just as easily sent someone else - someone lower on the totem pole - to do the job. But Draco liked doing things right, and sometimes that meant getting his hands dirty. Besides, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, he realised upon arrival; how many times did MI-6 simply walk into the same building with their cocky attitudes and guns with the safeties left on?

Not damn many.

Besides, Draco could still see Crabbe’s body lying prone in a puddle of his own blood in the middle of the room. It was perhaps a bit disconcerting to see his other henchman - friend, he might even go so far to say, though not in polite company - lying there gaping. It wasn’t much different from how he was when alive.Goyle was visibly shaken; he was distinctly green, his fingers twitching carefully. As if he were trying to keep composed in the face of what Draco presumed to be his best friend’s death. Or maybe it was just a facade for Draco, who was more than likely to chastise him for not having a good stomach for death.

The perpetrator was still somewhere in the room, one of those buggered MI-6ers that Hermione had so kindly updated him on. Though the blond still had yet to realise precisely where her plethora of knowledge came from, though she had alluded simply to a previous job. Either way, he had been grateful for the updates on the few files she could offer - something told him that she was being careful about it, never offering too much or too little, and always passing it under the guise of plain ignorance. But no one with such skills of observation could ever be ignorant to that extent. There was something she wasn’t telling him.

Hermione was crouching down beside him, hand over her mouth and her eyes averted to the ground; her stomach was no stronger than Goyle’s it seemed, though Draco wasn’t surprised. It hadn’t been long since she joined them, and she had never been able to watch even so much as a single, quick kill. And if someone couldn’t take a bullet to the chest, they certainly couldn’t take the expressions or gore that a bullet to the brain provided. Draco idly wondered how good a shot the other one was.

The blond took a deep breath, drawing Hermione’s glance up to him; Goyle, still in his own head, merely twitched slightly in response. There was one easy way to get out of there, and that was to do what they came to do. Both Potter and Weasley had hidden somewhere else, and - with Draco’s luck - they’d both be too late once he set his brief plan into action. Naturally, it wasn’t too far off from what he’d previously thought up; the only real difference was that he was now without Crabbe and Goyle, and Hermione was slightly more in the way than usual.

“Excuse me,” he drawled quickly, rising to his feet as he drew his gun, silver and glinting, and cocked it, striding pointedly across the expanse towards the slowly rising garage-style door at the front of the warehouse. Their supplier - bloody traitor that he was, having sold information to a dirty cop round a cafe just last week - was gesturing a truck in, completely unaware of the gun until the last minute, as it fell flush with his temple. Draco offered no statement upon arrival, merely double-checking that the safety was off.

Bang.

The truck driver slammed on his brakes to keep from hitting the falling body, swerving slightly in an attempt to see around the fresh blood spatter plastering the windscreen. Draco merely clicked the safety back on, tucking the weapon away, and shot the driver a pointed stare as he strode on by. He knew that the agents would be scrambling around to catch him now, and yet he walked with no sense of urgency. They barely managed to cover their backs earlier; there was no way they’d know their way around well enough to actually find him.

“Goyle! Arse in gear!” He shouted over his shoulder, knowing the brutish man would be grabbing Hermione the moment he heard Draco’s voice. It was a toss-up as to whether he’d bring Crabbe as well, but in the end Draco knew that his crony would just leave the other where he lay. He was a casualty of war. One that could have easily been avoided, admittedly, but a casualty nonetheless. It would be merely another stack of paperwork to be filled out once they got back to the office - how official they seemed from time to time - and a brief obituary for the local papers. Something heroic: Vincent Crabbe died young and in the line of fire.

Like he was military or something. In a way, Draco supposed. A corrupt branch that worked on their own terms rather than listening to the greater government. A guerilla squad, maybe.

He could see the pair of them racing towards him as he remained just outside the door, arms folded over his chest. He ignored the driver, attempting to silently scramble out of sight lest he take a bullet to the brain as well. Draco knew that he wouldn’t say anything to anyone; if they asked, he was traumatised by some traffic accident. He knew how that type of person worked.

Still an enigma, however, was dear Miss Whisp. Draco could see from where he stood, and where she was running, upper arm clasped gently in Goyle’s grip, that Hermione’s eyes were hardly locked onto him or even where she was stepping. No, her eyes were, instead, locked upon something to the side, tracking with a slightly concerned expression.

There truly was something he wasn’t being told.

\---

He solved the problem easily enough later. It had only been a small trifle to get a tap installed on Hermione’s phone before she got home that evening; even less of a problem to sit there with a set of headphones in as he worked on that evening’s errands. Nothing for the longest time, and then his attention was finally caught.

“Hermione, I don’t want you doing this anymore.” A familiar voice, Draco noted, listening idly. The man sounded distressed, vague sounds in the background suggesting he was at his own home. A simple trace would allow the blond an address, but he had better ideas up his sleeve.

“I’m fine, Ron,” she told him, sighing. “Draco hasn’t done anything more than take me along-”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m talking about!” Ron replied sharply, distress growing. There was a quiet mutter from Harry, in the background, for Ron to just calm down already.

“What is that supposed to mean, Ronald? That I’m just supposed to...spend time in an office all day, taking other people’s notes and organising everyone else’s lives, while the pair of you run around putting yourself in danger?” Her voice was growing dangerously tearful, bordering on as hysterical as anyone could ever imagine someone so grounded.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he told her softly. He was treated to a long pause, punctuated by a careful sniffle.

“So what do you mean?”

“I’m worried about you.”

“We’re over, Ron. You know that as well as I do.”

“And yet,” Ron started, pausing. He gathered up all his emotions and his pride, tossing them aside with a sigh. “Hermione, I was stupid. I’m sorry.”

There another lengthy pause, and Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Of course, that would explain it all - from the limited access to knowledge to the bizarre look just earlier that day. It even explained precisely why Hermione had stormed into the office that fateful day; the calculating bitch had just broken the heart of her poor agent boyfriend and saw an opportunity.

Was nothing sacred any longer, or was he the only one with morals?

“I know. I just-” Hermione kept talking past that moment, Draco knew, but he didn’t want to hear it. He’d heard more than enough, and thanks to a simple recorder, had a permanent record of it too. Just a simple nudge to the dial, and he’d shut the entire device off. Let them have their sweet reunion.

He’d get what he wanted in the end anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione lay comfortably sprawled across Draco’s bed, practically swimming in Egyptian cotton and silk. She had never quite been rich enough to justify expensive bedding, nor was Ron - coming from a family of seven children, Hermione wasn’t much surprised that Ron was used to getting hand-me-downs and sharing everything else. They were practically character foils, when she stopped to think about it; there was nothing in common to attract her to tell her precisely what her type was, because they were so different in so many ways.

It had been probably a couple weeks since her last phone call from Ron. Certainly, she’d been keeping them up to date on everything, but that was largely through an untraceable email account, perpetually changing to keep anyone from catching onto what she was doing. It was one of the most base skills she’d been taught, back when she was still officially learning: everyone had to know how to hide their tracks from even the most skilled of hackers. She wasn’t the best, but Hermione could certainly hold her own. One might be hard-pressed to gain hard proof of any sort of affiliations she held.

She rolled onto her stomach, burying her face into the pillows that smelled like her boss. Yet another stark difference: where Ron smelled like soap and dirt - an odd combination, perhaps - Draco smelled like designer cologne. It was never that type that made you sneeze in elevators, but the soft undertones that tickled your nostrils and made you want to know precisely which bloke was taking care of himself to that extent.

He was in the other room at that moment. Running a bath, by the sounds of it, for if it had been a shower, Hermione knew he wouldn’t have taken so long. She didn’t let it bother her; not much could bother her right then, in that moment of post-coital bliss. Perhaps there was something to sleeping with one’s boss that people didn’t realise until they did it. After all, there had to be perks to such an objectively poor decision. Hermione thought she could see flickering glimpses of him moving back and forth from where she lay, particularly if she stretched her neck and craned over half a foot. Not that she couldn’t imagine every inch of him if she closed her eyes; his image was already starting to replace that of Ron - she felt bad about that - but she refused to continue dealing with his juvenile behaviour, no matter how many times he apologised.

“Hermione, darling.” She was snapped from thought suddenly, shifting to pull the sheets around her body as if to hide its nudity from the one who knew it better than most. Draco poked his head past the doorjamb then, brows arched beckoningly; it only took him a moment to crack a smirk, leaning against the frame with his full self on display. Hermione couldn’t help from flushing slightly, a silly schoolgirl notion she never quite lost, as she gave him an involuntary glance-over.

“Going to stare all day, or are you going to join me?” She resisted the urge to steal from the bed to his side, and merely shot him a coy smile before drawing herself out slowly. It was only after he disappeared from sight, gone back into the bathroom to turn the water off, that she padded quietly after him, lingering momentarily in the doorway to watch him kneel by the tub, the lean line of his body contorted into a pleasing curve.

He didn’t glance up when she entered, merely motioned her over. “Is this water to your liking?” As if she could possibly have any complaints about the temperature.

Hermione bent down to run her fingertips over the top of the water, letting the temperature hit her slowly; she glanced up to give him a nod and a smile, her eyes catching his momentarily. Draco’s hand found its way to cup and caress the back of her neck, his thumb passing over wavy locks as he looked her over affectionately.

“Sorry, darling. Has to be done,” he drawled softly, smile never wavering. Before she even had the time to frown, her head was under the water, held there by a lithe hand that was much stronger than it looked. Her arms flailed, scrambling to grab for anything she could reach; her mouth opened to let out a scream, inhaling only water. She moved to kick out, feeling her lungs burning already. Draco merely shifted, pinning her legs beneath one of his, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. Hermione could barely hear him through the roar of water in her ears when he spoke next, “After all, you just _had_ to be one of them, didn’t you? I admit, you had me going for a while, but how long did you think it would go on?”

She almost wished she could reply, wished she could give more than a whimpering burble. Her hands still couldn’t find anything, her shoulders wrenched back at such an awkward angle by the edge of the clawfoot that there was no point in restraining her anymore. Every time she felt as though her head might break the surface, Draco had another burst of strength, forcing her down yet again. More than once, her nose hit the porcelain; she was sure it was ready to crack at any moment. Trickles of blood already stemmed up through the churning water, floating from her broken and bitten lip - she had bitten clean through not moments ago, the pain barely stinging in comparison to the air being denied her - and bruised nasal cartilage.

“And you’d have thought common sense would come into play - you worked for the blood government, yet you don’t check your phone for taps? It’s not hard to see, Miss Whisp, how you got yourself in this situation.” Trying to draw her attention away from the tightness of her chest, trying to keep her eyes focused before she blacked out for good, Hermione listened intently to the sound of his voice, wondering how many people you had to kill before you could monologue without any hint of emotion. It was the same sort of tone Hermione had heard him use when chastising Crabbe or Goyle, or even greeting Zabini in the mornings. How little she must have meant to him.

Draco held her beneath the water for just a few moments longer; he could feel precisely as she grew weaker, air fully removed from her lungs, forcing her to run for those few last minutes on adrenalin alone. Her struggles began to slow, and he removed his weight from her legs, shifting to massage the blood back into them with his free hand, lest they bruise and show signs of a pre-mortem struggle. It was only when the last dregs of life left her that he let go, rising up to hoist her into the tub. Her body sunk slowly, her limbs floating gently; if not for the eyes staring glassily at the ceiling, the blood in the corners of her mouth, she could have passed easily for gently resting. He smirked at his own thought, running his fingers through the water to brush a loose lock of her hair away from her face so he could admire it one last time. Of course, it might proof slightly difficult to create a cover-up, but Hermione had always proven a solitary creature - she didn’t seem to have any friends beyond those in the agency.

It would merely be getting past Riddle’s questions that would prove hardest, but Draco knew precisely how to spin a web of lies thick enough to ensnare even the most devious of interrogators.

\---

“Harry, I haven’t heard from her,” Ron announced, barely managing to shuck his coat in his hasty nervousness. One arm got caught, and he bent around awkwardly in an attempt to grab the offending sleeve and pull his arm out; Harry raised his eyebrows and stifled a snort of amusement - the moment was far too sober for this comical display. “Harry, are you listening to me? I haven’t heard from Hermione.”

“I heard you, mate. I haven’t heard from her either.” Harry shrugged one shoulder, drawing his eyes back to the portable in his lap; two fingers allowed him to scroll through pages upon pages of news - no news was never good news in their line of business. “But we can’t let ourselves freak out. Hermione’d have your head if you did, you know that. She’s always been telling to keep a level head in the face of danger. Well, here’s your possibility of danger, and here is you not keeping a level head.”

“Sod off, Harry,” Ron replied, voice rising in a growing fit of hysteria. “You know as well as I do that she said she’d ring us tonight.”

“After your last call with her, I wouldn’t be surprised if that ‘us’ was just ‘me’.”

Ron gaped at his friend, brows pulling into the centre of his forehead. Harry glanced up, immediately regretting the words; it wasn’t that he was jealous, except that that’s precisely what he was: he was jealous of everything Ron had in Hermione, and all that he seemed to fuck up time and again. Harry pulled his mouth into a tight, apologetic line, shaking his head slightly.

“I’m sorry, mate. That was unnecessary.”

“Bloody right it was,” Ron snapped, storming across the room in what reminded Harry all too closely of Ron’s own little sister; appropriate, considering how many times he’d driven her to that same conclusion. Green eyes trailed back down to the laptop, half-watching Ron’s form above the edge for fear he might get something thrown at his head if he weren’t watching closely enough. The redhead was moving about the kitchen - presumably getting some kind of decaffeinated beverage, whether that struck him as coffee or tea at the moment - muttering angrily to himself. A few times, his hand flew to his cell, pulling it out of his pocket just enough to check the time and missed messages. Harry caught the look on his face: still nothing.

Harry opened his mouth to say something, only to realise almost immediately that there was nothing he possibly could have said. Hermione had always been an incredibly stickler for punctuation, and to have her call even fifteen minutes late was a miracle; to have her not call at all? That was reason for worry. He continued scanning the online papers to no avail - his head was elsewhere, suddenly dragged away from thoughts of Hermione’s well-being to thoughts of his own well-being. Though he passed it off as the result of shock and a good pistol-whipping, there were no two ways about it: he had at least one screw loose somewhere. He couldn’t possibly fathom any other reason why he’d dream of a man that he undeniably figured to be Draco Malfoy.

Somewhere in the kitchen - or maybe elsewhere in the house, Harry couldn’t tell - Ron threw something out of sheer frustration. Whereas some frustrations were easily solved, Harry knew this wasn’t one of them; it was better to stay out of the fiery redhead’s way when he was like this. His own mind drifted again, feather-light phantom touches running over his body through his clothing; he bit back a gasp, snapping himself back to reality. When did his affections become so easily attainable?

Resisting the urge to palm himself right then and there, Harry shoved his portable aside, snatching for a scrap sheet of paper and a small envelope. His writing was hastily scrawled, his heart thumping in his chest to drown out the sounds of Ron’s muffled sobs in the other room; he signed the note with only his last initial - the recipient would know precisely who he was.

A quickly placed call, his voice dropped and demanding, leaving no room for other options, secured Harry an informant to bring the note to Draco without fail or reveal of anything important. It was amazing what a favour or two could do. Harry let his phone drop from his ear, falling into his open lap, and let himself finally relax back into the chair, as if melting into it like a clock off a tree.

He’d get to the bottom of this if his life depended on it.

\---

Draco had only been marginally shocked when he’d found a note tucked under the front door of the Manor. His mother was only God knew where, though anywhere that wasn’t stashed away at home and away from everyone was fine by him; the blond was more than grateful for the fact that he virtually lived alone, save only the late-night supper he tended to take alongside Narcissa. After all, it provided him ample opportunity to court whom he pleased, and to kill them off when they stepped out of line. Something Narcissa never would have approved of.

Of course, she had it coming, Draco thought, wiping his hands clean of the blood stains that he had begun to ignore after a time with a cloth. The cloth had since been abandoned, replaced with the chicken-scratch letter that asked him to meet at a dock that evening. It was like something out of a bad film: a cop calling for a meeting on some kind of equal ground, making some kind of demands as per the villain’s surrender. It was obvious from the first moment that it was one of the agents from MI-6 that sent it; Draco wasn’t an idiot. He knew Hermione was likely meant to check in with the pair of them at some point. It was purely luck on his part that that time had already come and passed.

As such, he showed up at the set time and place no more than five minutes early - let them see that he wasn’t some monstrous creature without manners or a watch. He glanced over his shoulder upon arrival, scanning the horizon for some sign of no one in particular. Hands tucked in his pockets, he lightly scuffed the heel of one designer shoe against the aged wood of the dock; most people could call it a risky move, keeping himself absolutely in sight that way, but Draco had faith that he’d be fine. Times like then, he wittily thought to himself that perhaps an appropriate name for the piece his father left to him so recently might be Faith.

Harry Potter showed up not moments after the blond stifled a snigger at his own wit, looking common and far too serious. He hadn’t even bothered to hide the federal badge at his hip, nor the shoulder holster poking from beneath his jacket.

“Well, well. Look who it is,” Draco drawled in greeting, only bothering to offer Harry a sideways glance. The brunet’s mouth tightened, as if he were trying to keep himself professional. In all likelihood, Draco wouldn’t have put it past Potter to have forgotten himself after one wrong word, and merely lunged at Draco; it wouldn’t have ended well, likely with Harry in the river. “If it isn’t the less hasty of the agents. Where’s the other one? Had to put him to sleep for bad behaviour?”

Harry took a deep breath, changing the subject. “I came alone.” A lie, Draco figured. No agent worth his salt would have come alone. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?” Draco feigned innocence. The entire encounter really was like something out of a poorly written film. If it were, he’d be the one to earn the award - there was no way someone as poor an actor as Potter could win. The blond finally turned, grey eyes sliding from Harry to scan the horizon from which the other man came. He could see the roof rack of a nondescript van just off to the side, hidden close - but not too close. The entire complex was abandoned for the time being, Draco thought; the workers had left their warehouses and storage facilities, the sailors had either left or gone home, waiting for yet another sunrise.

“What we can do to get you to stop.”

A poor statement at best. As if there was anything MI-6 could possibly offer Draco Malfoy to sate his appetite for violence. He had to stifle his own amusement, tipping his head to one side as a smile curved his lips. “Oh, Potter. And what could you possibly have to offer me that I don’t already have?”

“A life,” Harry replied, green eyes twinkling dangerously - not with amusement, but with some deadly serious intensity, as if he had something completely different in mind. “Last time I checked, all you had left was your mother, isn’t that right?”

“Better than you, Potter. Isn’t your mother dead?”

Harry couldn’t help his surprise at the idle comment, blinking widely behind his glasses. Draco merely offered a quaint smile, as if they were discussing nothing more than the weather. “Am I wrong?” He prompted.

“H-...how would you know anything about my family?” Harry demanded, tightening his mouth into a line. The tables were turning, and if Harry wanted them on even footing, he likely should have looked into things a bit deeper than just the surface.

“I know more than you think about you and Mr Weasley. I know that he has six siblings, and...oh, didn’t you date one of them?” Harry’s mouth tightened almost into nonexistence at that comment, and Draco knew he’d struck a nerve.

“Who told you? Hermione?”

“Miss Whisp? Never in so many words, but I assure you, she played her part.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry’s facade was cracking; Draco could see it. If he slowed it down enough, he could almost see the slow shifts, like tectonic plates, of emotion across the brunet’s face as he tried - and failed - to control his growing anger.

“That means precisely how it sounds, Potter.”

Harry’s fingers twitched, as if he wanted nothing more than to lunge at Draco, throwing him down to the dock and pummeling him into absolute submission. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed; Draco responded only with a growing smirk, and Harry’s voice dropped: “What did you do to her?”

“Obviously, I killed her,” he admittedly casually, shrugging. “She knew too much, and because of it, you knew too much. Besides, what better way to fuck with the pair of you, hm?”

This time, Harry was unable to keep himself from launching. Draco dodged but barely, grabbing Harry’s wrist and planting his other hand on the brunet’s shoulder blade, shoving him into an awkward contortion. A car door slammed, footsteps signaling Ron’s arrival on site.

“I knew your little friend couldn’t be too far,” Draco smirked, making sure to keep just out of Harry’s flailing reach. Ron paused just at the opposite end of the dock, hand twitching towards his gun as if he was weighing the pros and cons of merely whipping it out and shooting Draco right then and there. His hand clenched into a fist finally, and he stood his ground.

“Let Harry go.”

“Oh, did you hear my little admission? I’m so sorry for your loss,” the blond drawled, sarcasm dripping from his every word like ink from an overloaded brush.

“I know you heard me the first time, so don’t make me say it again, Malfoy,” Ron spat, not keeping his temper nearly so well as Harry had. Draco merely wrenched Harry around in his arms, effectively pinning his other arm with the one he still had in his grasp. Harry groaned, grunting with the effort of struggling, and continued to do so. He was held too closely to Draco’s body, though, to do much damage with any sort of limbless flailing. The back of his mind noted that Draco smelled even better in person than he did in any sort of delusion-based dream.

“I don’t think I will. In fact,” Draco paused, shifting only enough to draw his own gun and place its barrel contentedly at Harry’s temple. “I think you’re actually going to move for me, darling. I know I’m not that large, but I do appreciate at least five feet of space.”

Ron seethed, standing his ground until Draco raised his brows, clicking the safety off the weapon. Over Ron’s shoulder, the blond could see Goyle and Zabini sliding into position, and a small smile curved his mouth again. Harry’s brows went up, and he opened his mouth to shout some warning; it was cut short by Draco’s elbow to his ribs.

“Stuff it, Potter. You utter one word, and you’ll find it’s the last word you ever speak.” Harry was silent after that.

Draco slowly began to walk, nudging the back of Harry’s calves to get him moving at the same rate. Ron glowered at the blond, Harry merely offering the world an apologetic expression, as if he were sorry for absolutely everything that had brought them up to that moment. In all likelihood, he was; the knot tightening in Harry’s throat told him that this was all his fault, from Hermione going to work for Malfoy to the events that followed to even that meeting right then. Every little thing had been prompted by Harry, put into motion by him, and finally executed to a negative end. Hermione was dead, and he had a gun pressed to his head.

An engine revved as Draco drew closer to the main road coursing through the complex, and Ron whipped around; Harry bit his tongue, holding back guilty words as Goyle came into sight as driver of Ron’s neglected van, whooping ridiculously as he four-wheeled it over a grassy abutment and towards the edge of a secondary dock. Draco merely made a face, disapproving of virtually everything about their methods, and caught Blaise’s eye; a getaway car was parked nearby, put into gear, and ready for their imminent arrival.

As Ron stared in horror, Goyle leapt from the vehicle, letting it plummet on its own down the dock and into the water, taking the hundreds of dollars worth of equipment and weaponry with it. Draco had already dragged Potter to the car, stuffing him into the backseat and promptly following; Goyle raced back towards the car at Draco’s barked order, and before Ron could even fathom what had happened, they were gone and he was alone. Fully and completely alone.

“ _Fuck!_ ”


	6. Chapter 6

It took Ronald Weasley barely a few hours to manage to come up with a plan. It had been concocted while pacing lines into the floor, muttering angrily to himself, and trying to resist the urge to call up every one of his brothers for help. In the end, he’d penned out a quick text to everyone he knew within the agency and his family who could possibly offer something, all under the guise of absolute secrecy. If so much as a word got out about this that Ron hadn’t released himself, everyone involved knew that heads would roll.

He spent the next two days on the phone.

\---

Harry, however, spent the next two days in a dungeon that no one knew existed. No one excepting the entire Malfoy family, of course; it was obvious from Harry’s first hour alone down there that he was hardly the first to go down there for treasonous activity. There were blood splatters all over the walls, the floor - it was hard to discern precisely how old they were, or where one ended and the next began. It was unbearably cold, too, and Harry caught without much of a coat.

Yet somehow, he couldn’t help but feel sorry for Draco. He still clung to that logic, that something in his head that insisted all the blond needed was a way out. Some opportunity to escape the hell that he was caught in. That he’d been dragged into from birth and on, without so much as a choice to leave. He supposed it may as well have been his own fault that the blond was in his current position. And it was that thought alone that kept Harry warm and content even in the dank basement, with little to calm or comfort him between Malfoy’s brief and far between visits.

He was fed, certainly, and watered. Draco wasn’t cruel, per se - Harry never thought he would be. Nor did he expect much by way of torture; though Malfoy had openly admitted to having murdered Hermione in cold blood, he couldn’t see any reason to die immediately. The way it came off to an observant third party, it was almost as thought the blond merely wanted to rid himself of any and all obstructions to his living. Everyone else had given up on the family up till then - Harry wasn’t sure if Hermione dying or even him dying would make any changes in that opinion - and had effectively left them be. It was merely himself and Ron that were getting in the way now, throwing a wrench into plans that were otherwise flawless.

Harry did have to admire Malfoy’s planning. Perhaps it wasn’t only his, though - Riddle likely played a large part in everything done, giving orders and making sure everyone was doing what they ought to be, as far as Hermione had stated. Harry began to worry his lower lip between his teeth, wincing only barely as his teeth tore asunder the tender and chapped flesh. It was a subconscious motion, one he managed to ignore until he heard the ricochet of Draco’s familiar footsteps on the stairs.

The brunet whipped around where he sat, grateful for the unexpected shift provided by turning around to greet Draco. Leaning against the wall casually, the blond merely stared for a long moment before speaking, his familiar drawl almost music to Harry’s ears after the endless silence to which he’d been treated.

“How long do you think it’d be before your little friend calls all his little friends and ambushes me when he thinks I’m off-guard?”

Harry thought about that for a very long moment - it likely felt longer to him than it actually was, though - before shrugging. His voice felt harsh and rasping in his throat; perhaps he’d ask for a bit more water. “I couldn’t say,” he offered truthfully. “Knowing Ron, it’d be as soon as he could.”

Grey eyes rolled skyward, accompanied by the most annoyed sigh Harry had ever heard. “Then clearly I should keep on my guard. Two days is more than enough for anyone to get together some sort of plan. And if it isn’t…” He trailed off, stifling a snort of laughter as he strode towards Harry, motioning for him to get up. It wasn’t precisely distinguished for a Malfoy to have to bend down, nor did he have any precise inclination to touch a prisoner who hadn’t washed in days.

Harry rose to his feet slowly, reveling in the harsh stretch the motion provided. Certainly, he had taken to doing laps around the small confines, but it wasn’t quite the same as finally being required for something. Some part of him was almost excited to see what he was in for, leaving another - saner - part of him to scream profane epithets at himself as it fought for control; he could feel his heart beating in his chest, pounding with adrenalin caused by merely that long grey stare. It was as though Draco had forsaken blinking altogether.

“Why don’t you fill me in on a few things, Potter?” Malfoy asked then, voice lowered to almost a purr - he must have known what effect it had on people and adapted it appropriately, Harry thought. “I’m afraid my knowledge isn’t as complete as I’d like it to be.”

“What do you want to know?” Harry asked breathlessly. His voice was beginning to return, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to bring it back faster. From all he had heard about the Riddle family, doubtless Draco would be the forgiving type. Not if he was willing to kill someone just for upholding one simple lie. The sane part of Harry took a moment of silence to mourn Hermione, and he let his eyes fall closed behind scratched glasses.

“You’ll find out, won’t you?” A hand tangled itself in Harry’s hair suddenly, nearly tearing out a thick chunk by the roots; Harry stifled a pained cry, stumbling after Draco as directed. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to be good.

\---

If he survived this entire exercise in exactly why big-time mafia families shouldn’t be allowed to exist, Ron knew that he was going to tender his resignation. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but it was going to be far less exciting than working for MI6. Maybe he’d been a janitor or take up some mediocre hobby. Something that kept him far and away from people and their failings.

After spending two days on the phone with very little sleep and even less success, the redhead was running on little more than fumes. At the same time, he knew that Harry was in a bad spot that wasn’t getting better, and no one but him was doing anything about it. It was more than enough to put things into perspective, and give him the brief bouts of strength that were required to drag himself out to the well-known Malfoy Manor armed with only himself, his failing wits, and a fully loaded regulation handgun.

In all honesty, he had hoped he’d have been able to find someone else to come along if for no other reason than sheer moral support, and possibly the fact that it would have been far easier to swipe heavier artillery. But everyone else had bigger fish to fry, and those who didn’t were too emotionally scarred to even make the attempt; Ron couldn’t blame his brothers, not after he’d seen first-hand how badly they’d all taken the funeral.

All he had now was the element of surprise. He killed the engine of the little car a few metres down the country road, as if it had merely broken down, left abandoned by its lost owner; Ron knew there were few ways into the Manor, short of climbing over the wrought-iron gates or the thick stone walls (which were more than likely alarmed, if not guarded), and the chances of him just being let in were slim. He banked on having to climb, had worn a pair of cleats as if it would help the matter. When he arrived at two heavy gates, one left just open enough for a person to slide through, he wondered if it wasn’t a pleasant surprise or just an ambush.

\---

“Out with it, Harry,” Draco sang, gouging the knife deeper beneath Harry’s nail. It was one of the only things that ever hinted that he might have been related to Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman Harry knew so well as only a psychotic mass-murderer; the possible relation had been only rumour until Lucius’ death, when Narcissa had made no secret of Bellatrix being her sister. Despite his unlawful treatment, Harry bit his tongue - literally, his teeth sinking into flesh until he could taste copper. He could no longer stand to look at his hands, instead focusing his gaze straight into unfeeling grey eyes adjacent. Draco seemed only too happy to hold the stare, a terrifying smirk pulling his mouth wide. A pan sat beside the pair of them on a small table, not unlike those involved in surgeries; Harry knew Malfoy had been planning this for far too long, or at least entertaining the thought of what he’d do if he happened to get one of them in custody.

Three of Harry’s fingernails already sat in the tray, the other two holding on by barely a thread. It was more painful than anything he’d ever gone through to date, but still his eyes locked on Draco’s, offering few outwards signs that he was even registering it. He thought it might have been working, that he might be getting through to the blond with just that unwavering stare, until he found stars dancing before his eyes and a throbbing sting in his cheek.

“I worried you might have gone and passed out on me,” Draco drawled, one hand snapping Harry’s face back towards him. “It’s happened before, after all.”

Harry offered nothing by way of reply, merely clearing his throat again. The blood flooding his mouth was pooling beneath his tongue, leaking out of the corner of his mouth with the effort of the cough. Draco drew back, barely a wince, and sneered at the possibility of foreign contaminants on his crisp white shirt, before boring back beneath Harry’s nail suddenly. The unexpected gesture drew a pained wail from the brunet, an arching of his back against the solid chair to which he was lashed.

“That’s better.”

“There’s nothing I can tell you that will possibly help you,” Harry tried, turning his head to one side to rid himself of some of the blood impeding his speech; he spat it onto the untreated concrete of the floor, merely adding to the spatters there. One of Malfoy’s thin brows went up, disbelieving and curious, so Harry went on. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what? Peel your nails off slowly because you can’t answer a simple question?” There was another sharp jab from the knife, and the fourth of Harry’s nails popped off with an unpleasant squirt of blood; he barely bit back the scream this time, choosing the interior of his cheek to abuse now. “I’ll break it to you kindly, Potter, because I don’t think you’re smart enough to follow much else: I _like_ what I do.”

“No, y-”

Harry’s protest was silenced as Draco drew the knife away from his hands, the tip resting instead at Harry’s throat. He swallowed; a small rivulet of blood trickled down to pool in his collarbone.

“Shut up. Just do me a favour and keep your opinions to yourself. I like what I do. I like being the source of most contraband in this forsaken city, and I like killing people who get in my way. I like tearing your nails off one by one and making you watch, and if only you’d been around early, I’d have liked to fuck your little friend and then kill her while you watched that. I don’t know what it is about your lot, but you always think you can save people.” A cruel curve tugged at Malfoy’s mouth, and the tip of the knife dug in slightly deeper, choking Harry. “I hate to break it to you - that’s a lie, I don’t actually care - but there’s nothing here to save. You’ve gone and missed the boat, my friend.”

Harry would have offered more of his opinions, but it was hard enough to swallow without twinges of pain, let alone speaking. Only when the knife slid away from his throat did he dare clear his throat again, gasping to return the required amount of air back into his lungs; Draco was already walking away from him, leaving him tethered to the chair as he listened to something.

“Your friend’s here.”

“You ca-can hear that from d-down here?” Harry gasped, choking the words out, eyes on Malfoy’s back. Draco cast a look over his shoulder that suggested Harry was nothing short of an idiot.

“I have cameras all over my property. He just walked through the front door.”

Harry felt a leap in his chest, hopeful glee suddenly filling him; if it were possible for Ron to just walk through the door, perhaps there was some lapse in Malfoy’s judgement they hadn’t realised before now. The thought that Draco was merely baiting them both had occurred to him, been brushed away, yet niggled still; he didn’t want to admit that maybe it had all been a ruse, some preplanned attempt at getting them both into the Manor so that Draco could bump them off without any questions asked. No one would even notice they’d disappeared.

\---

Ron had been on edge ever since the moment he realised not only had the gate been left open, but the front door was unlocked. He’d drawn his firearm, held at the ready as he headed through the dark house, his back to the walls as he constantly glanced back and forth; he knew that he looked nearly insane to anyone who hazarded a walk by, but thankfully the manor was empty. It was beginning to look more and more like a set up. Even so, it wasn’t one Ron could pass up. Harry was somewhere in that house, and Ron was going to search forever if he had to.

But it took almost no time for the ginger to find himself nearly lost in the winding corridors that seemingly led in circles, took barely a few minutes more for him to find a door just left ajar: it was more than just a set up now; it was a full-on lure. Ron nudged the door barely open, dropping into a crouch to peer down the darkened stairs.

A bullet went off, burying itself into the wall just behind Ron’s head. His heart caught in his throat, and he froze where he crouched, immediately grateful for the doorjamb digging into his back.

“I know you’re down there, Malfoy,” he called, smirking to himself as he kept the nervous waver from his voice.

“You’re an idiot if you didn’t, Weasley,” The drawl was no less pretentious than it ever was, perpetually mocking. “I nearly shot you.”

“Yeah, well- You didn’t.” It was a weak comeback, and Ron knew it. His cheeks flushed slightly as borderline hysterical laughter issued from the basement.

“Not going to join me and your friend down here, are you?”

“Not in a million years, Malfoy. Bring Harry up here, and we’ll come to an agreement.”

“Lower your weapon, first.”

Ron was positive that it was only the potential threat against Harry’s life that made him lower the gun. He set it down, making sure the sound was loud enough for Malfoy to register, then kicked it behind him, making note of exactly where it had gone for the first opportunity he got. The sound was followed by unbearable silence before Malfoy muttered something incoherent, and Harry cried out.

“Oi!” Ron barked, taking a step back towards his weapon. He was given no reply, merely the sight and sound of Harry stumbling up the stairs before Malfoy; as his best mate came into view, the redhead couldn’t help his bewildered expression for a moment, clamping down on it as soon as the blond became visible. Harry looked far worse for wear than he had the last time Ron had seen him - unsurprising, he supposed, considering who he was with. Blood spattered around his mouth, dark circles beneath his eyes, and a distinctly green tinge to his skin; Harry looked like he’d survived nothing short of hell. It was all Ron could do to keep from saying something.

“What’s this agreement you were thinking of?” Malfoy finally drawled, sounding as if he couldn’t possibly be bothered with anything Ron had to offer. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t - that was fine. All Ron wanted was to get Harry back home safe and sound.

“You got a drawing room in this place? I know you do,” Ron accused, taking another step back, pressing his back against the opposite wall. His gun was nearby, just at his feet; all he needed was a moment of distraction on Malfoy’s part to grab it. Harry caught his eye, trying to tell him something through just his gaze. For the first time, Ron mentally chastised himself for not learning how to read stares for what they said.

“What sort of heathen do you take me for?” Malfoy rolled his eyes, gesturing with one hand - Ron suddenly realised that Harry had a gun pressed against the small of his back - before motioning to be followed. He was strangely trusting, though it wasn’t like the ginger couldn’t follow the train of thought. If a gun was trained on the blond, all it took was a tiny twitch, and Harry was gone. But Ron leaned down after Draco had passed, scooping his handgun up, and holding it carefully, safety flicked on. He’d bide his time, he’d watch for an opening, and when the opening presented itself: he’d take it.

\---

Draco was fully aware of the weapon not quite trained on him; he’d heard the faint click of a safety being turned on amidst his footsteps and Harry’s. He didn’t put it past Weasley in the slightly to have taken up his gun again - it was what Draco would have done, after all - and the fact that they’d made it to the drawing room without bloodshed was a sign that the obnoxious redhead likely knew what game was being played at.

Despite ‘negotiations’ having been a word thrown around, there was little chat going on in the small room. Draco was sitting on the arm of a large, comfortable chair, where he was better able to drape one arm around Harry’s shoulders, the heavy-looking firearm in his hand leaning effortlessly against the back of Harry’s head. Ron hadn’t yet uttered a single word where he sat adjacent, opting instead for a glare leveled at Draco, his gun placed in his lap - just waiting for the right moment to draw and fire. It was an old West gunfight, the blond thought, stifling a snigger. Whoever drew faster would be the winner, and Weasley was already at a disadvantage.

“So, did you just plan on having me wait here forever?” Draco finally asked, shattering the silence in such a way that Harry jumped, wincing visibly. The blond merely reached over with his free hand, smoothing Harry’s hair down in what Ron supposed was meant to be a reassuring way; it just came off creepy. Harry seemed soothed by it though, for some unknown, incomprehensible reason; Ron’s brows immediately creased, nestling together for some kind of quick meeting. “Or were you actually going to propose something.”

“I propose you let go of Harry, we walk out of here, and you get to live another day,” Ron snapped, glowering. “Of course, I can’t guarantee you’d get much more than that.”

“I don’t really like those odds,” Draco replied, voice a nonchalant drawl as his trigger finger twitched. Green eyes suddenly exploded wide behind their glasses, Harry’s mouth falling open in an ‘o’ of mild surprise.

“You bastard-” Ron bellowed, throwing himself out of his own chair with enough force to send the poor armchair wobbling. His gun was in his hand, leveled already at Draco’s head; the blond’s had already matched it: an old-fashioned stand-off, with neither willing to back down. Harry’s body had already slumped out of the chair, crumpled in a heap at Draco’s feet. The blond seemed fully unperturbed that one of his designer shoes was dangling in the blood seeping from the expansive exit wound, and it was more than enough to make Ron sick.

“Ah, ah, ah. None of that, Weasley, or you’ll join him. I told you, I didn’t like those odds,” Draco explained with a hint of amusement, still seated comfortably on the padded arm of the chair. “I thought I’d even them up a little bit, if you didn’t mind.”

“M-” The words caught in Ron’s throat, choking him momentarily. “Mind?! You blew a hole in my best mate’s _head_ , and you think I don’t mind?” His finger was trembling against the trigger, his whole body shaking from the effort of not exploding on the spot. There were only two ways Draco could see the encounter ending, and it was with at least one of them in a body bag. If he had anything to say about it, it would only be the ginger whose life would be lost. No loss there, Draco decided.

“Don’t know what you saw in him. He wasn’t precisely the best conversationalist.”

“That’s i-”

Ron’s last words were cut off by a swift pull of the trigger, a bullet firmly embedding itself into his forehead; Draco couldn’t deny that his heart rate had risen slightly, that his breath had caught in his throat the moment he saw that faint movement that could have signaled his untimely demise. He slumped against the back of the chair, one hand massaging his temples as Weasley dropped to the floor, blood already soaking into his mother’s favourite rug. She’d have his head at some point - likely when she got back from her trip overseas: ‘a nice long vacation’, he’d told her to take; ‘somewhere pretty’.

It felt like an hour before he pushed himself up out of the chair, taking his swift leave of the two cooling bodies on his floor. It wasn’t like death bothered him - it followed the blond nearly everywhere, like a cloud of disease just waiting to descend upon him - but there was always something disconcerting about spending time in the same room as a pair of corpses. Perhaps it was the lingering part of him that wasn’t as morbid as the rest, the part he had to work to suppress in his profession. Draco took his leave of the room, offering a scant glance over his shoulder before shutting the door to it - he’d take care of everything later, all the possible fallout and the impending disposal - and began heading through the house, carefully closing the doors he’d left open to lead Weasley into his demise. He’d shut the gates from afar - there was an interior panel just beside the main doors - before pausing at the front, blinking up at the beautiful day. There was something entirely unfettered about the way the sun shone in the sky, warming everyone across the UK.

Draco was caught off-guard when the bullet struck his chest. From the front, not behind, like he might have expected. He glanced down, surprised, hand moving to press weakly against the wound; a second bullet met his brain not moments later, sending him stumbling a few steps back before the blond dropped to the hardwood floor of the foyer. Grey eyes continued to gape at the front door, the glaze of death the only sign that he couldn’t see the second ginger stepping up to the landing.

“Serves you right, you pompous arse.”

The door shut with a soft click, the blond’s body left slumped against the wall still bemused by the given situation. It would be three days before Narcissa would come home to her son’s dead body and thick stench of death percolating in the entirety of the house, greeting him with nothing but a shrill scream. Until then, the house was utterly silent, unless you listened closely: then you would hear the reverberation of gunshots still ringing through the manor’s expansive grounds.


End file.
